Sad poems
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Griselda: A Society Novel In Verse - Chapter IV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
How shall I take up this vain parable
And ravel out its issue? Heaven and Hell,
The principles of good and evil thought,
Embodied in our lives, have blindly fought
Sweet Valley, Say
© James Thomson
Sweet valley, say, where, pensive lying,
For me, our children, England, sighing,
Credidimus Jovem Regnare
© James Russell Lowell
O days endeared to every Muse,
When nobody had any Views,
The Cliffs
© Henry Lawson
They sing of the grandeur of cliffs inland,
But the cliffs of the ocean are truly grand;
And I long to wander and dream and doubt
Where the cliffs by the ocean run out and out.
The Dedication To A Book Of Stories Selected From The Irish Novelists
© William Butler Yeats
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
On The Death Of The Same Revered Nun, The Venerable Mother St. Madeleine , Ten Years Later
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
In Memoriam.
Grief reigns now within the convent walls,
Black Mousquetaire: A Legend Of France
© Richard Harris Barham
No triumphs flush that haughty brow,-
No proud exulting look is there,-
His eagle glance is humbled now,
As, earthward bent, in anxious care
It seeks the form whose stalwart pride
But yester-morn was by his side!
The Shepherds Calendar - July
© John Clare
Daughter of pastoral smells and sights
And sultry days and dewy nights
July resumes her yearly place
Wi her milking maiden face
Birds In The Night
© Paul Verlaine
You were not over-patient with me, dear;
This want of patience one must rightly rate:
You are so young! Youth ever was severe
And variable and inconsiderate!
'Most Anglers Are Very Humane' - Daily Paper
© Norman Rowland Gale
The kind-hearted angler was sadly pursuing
His calling unhallowed of choking the fishes;
He bitterly wept, for of course he was doing
An action most strongly opposed to his wishes!
The Old-Timer
© Arthur Chapman
He showed up in the springtime, when the geese began to honk;
He signed up with the outfit, and we fattened up his bronk;
His chaps were old and tattered, but he never seemed to mind,
Cause for worryin and frettin he had never been designed;
Hes the type of cattle-puncher that has vanished now, of course,
With his hundred-dollar saddle on his twenty-dollar horse.
Sonnet XXXII. To Melancholy
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Written on the banks of the Arun, Oct. 1785.
WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
An Autumn Evening At Murray Bay
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the crisp leaf sere,
Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward, chill and drear,
Sullen dash the restless waters gainst a bleak and rock-bound shore,
While the sea-birds weird voices mingle with their surging roar.
Foreshadowings
© Henry Kendall
FIFTEEN miles and then the harbour! Here we cannot choose but stand,
Faces thrust towards the day-break, listening for our native land!
The Year's End
© Roderic Quinn
THE voices of the wind and wave
They sigh the Old Year's requiem;
The dead are calling from the grave
Good friends, a little space I crave
Francis Parkman
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
HE rests from toil; the portals of the tomb
Close on the last of those unwearying hands
That wove their pictured webs in History's loom,
Rich with the memories of three distant lands.
The Last Word
© Sir Henry Newbolt
Before the April night was late
A rider came to the castle gate;
A rider breathing human breath,
But the words he spoke were the words of Death.
